


What Happens at Waffle House

by Anoke



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aiden on the other hand is delighted with them, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Eskel and Geralt are tired of Lambert's antics, Idiots in Love, M/M, Nazis, Slurs, Waffle House, but that's really just a background setting, fistfights, the witcher boys are antifa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anoke/pseuds/Anoke
Summary: This was just life now. Punching Nazis, clients always trying to underpay them, and their younger brother getting into fights at least once a week with a line cook at the Waffle House.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 242





	What Happens at Waffle House

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw this tweet:  
> https://twitter.com/deannaraybourn/status/1260177577894912000
> 
> And after I was done laughing, I thought "Oh wait. Oh no. This is a modern RL AU for Lambert and Aiden." And then, of course, I had to write it.

The first time it happened, the three of them had been dead on their feet at two in the morning and had just wanted to cram as many calories into their faces as possible before heading back to their place to get some sleep. But of fucking course Lambert couldn’t let shit be easy.

“I asked for over-easy,” he bitched, poking at his eggs with his fork.

“Lambert, it’s a Waffle House. At two in the goddamn morning. Does it really matter,” Geralt intoned, taking another bite of his all-the-way hashbrowns.

“Yes it goddamn does.” Lambert said, jaw setting. Firmly.

_Fuck._

Lambert waved over the server and held up his plate. “Hey, uh. I asked for my eggs cooked over-easy, and these are over-hard. Can you get the cook to remake them?”

“Of course,” the server said, taking his plate and bringing it over to one of the cooks in the line, a blond. The blond cook looked over at their table for a long moment, eyes fixed on Lambert. Lambert, burdened by his automatic instinct to be an asshole, gave the guy a little wave and a nasty grin.

The cook grinned in return and turned back to the griddle.

In retrospect, they really should have suspected something then.

The server came over with a plate a couple of minutes later, looking nervous.

“...What the hell is this,” Lambert asked, staring at the fully-cooked egg in the center of a hole in a piece of toast.

“Egg-in-a-hole, I believe,” Eskel said, taking a long drink of his orange juice. “It’s usually supposed to be a soft-cooked egg, though.”

Lambert scowled at the egg for another moment before picking up the plate and walking up to the counter.

“Oh sweet fuck,” Geralt said, dropping his head to the table with a thunk. “That cook has _no_ idea what he just got himself into.”

Eskel hummed and Geralt turned his head to the side to watch.

Lambert was his usual confrontational self, but the cook was open—and he was still grinning.

“You know, I’m almost impressed,” Eskel said. “Annoyance to outright confrontation in one move.”

“He’s just used to us,” Geralt said. Lambert was getting more agitated.

“Oh please, you know it’s not just that,” Eskel said.

Geralt hummed. The cook gave a wide shrug, complete with upturned hands. Geralt then snapped his head up as Lambert _picked up the egg and threw it at the cook._ The egg hit the guy in the shoulder, and as it dropped the blond reflexively caught it.

Eskel whistled. “Good reflexes.”

The cook looked at the egg, then at Lambert—and threw the damn egg back.

The egg-in-a-hole bounced right off Lambert's shirt, leaving a greasy mark.

Lambert stared at the guy for five full seconds before socking him in the jaw.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Eskel groaned, but he didn’t get the chance to say anything else before the cook hauled himself around, grinning, and popped Lambert right in the nose.

It couldn’t have been that hard a hit, Lambert’s nose wasn’t even bleeding, but of course the little goblin bellowed in outrage and threw himself at the guy, right over the counter. The one other patron in the establishment just looked on with mild amusement, although the server looked very worried. Must be new.

Geralt slid out of his seat. “You want to get Lambert or shall I?”

“You get Lambert, I’ll hold off the cook in case he decides to keep going,” Eskel said, setting a handful of cash on the table to pay for their food and getting up as well.

As they walked over, Geralt surveyed the fight. The pair were mostly just scuffling, neither one really trying to inflict damage. He waited until Lambert drew back a little, probably to punch the cook in the stomach, then grabbed him by the arm and the back of his shirt and hauled him back.

Eskel slid in then, using his arm to block the cook from chasing after Lambert. It turned out to be unnecessary; the guy disengaged easily enough, and ran his hand through his hair. He was _still_ smiling, through bloody teeth—he'd clearly cut the inside of his mouth at some point.

"Geralt, let _go_ of me, this is a matter of principles!" Lambert snarled, tugging at Geralt's grip on him.

"We're leaving," Geralt said.

The cook straightened from where he'd been picking up his cap.

"Thank you for your visit," he said. "Do come again."

Eskel shook his head in astonishment and took Lambert by the other arm. Together, he and Geralt dragged their still-protesting brother to the car.

\---

A week later, Geralt was dealing with an asshole of a client while Eskel and Lambert were out hiking. Lambert had continued vociferously hating on Waffle House Guy, but it was _Lambert_ ; he’d find something else to be angry about and Waffle House Guy would fade from memory.

Right around the point where Geralt was composing an email to politely tell the client to take a long walk off a short dock, the door slammed open and Lambert walked in with a split lip, muttering under his breath. Geralt caught the words ‘ _scrambled eggs_ ’ and had to stare for a moment before turning to Eskel.

"Waffle House Guy?" he asked, incredulous. 

"Waffle House Guy," Eskel confirmed, exhausted. 

"'Waffle House Guy' is named _Aiden_ , and I will get that motherfucker to serve me my goddamn over-easy eggs if I have to keep going there for a _year_ ," Lambert hissed before storming into the bathroom. 

Geralt's jaw dropped a little. 

"What the _hell_ ," he said, and Eskel just gestured helplessly. 

It became a Thing, after that. Eskel and Geralt stopped going to the damn restaurant with Lambert after the first four fights—amusing as it initially was to make bets, it got old after a while—but Lambert was clearly incapable of letting this go. 

“ _Hard-boiled_ ,” he complained after his latest excursion, icing a bruise on his shin. “I don’t even think they _have_ pots for hard-boiling there, he _brought one in_ to keep denying me my eggs.” 

This was just life now. Punching Nazis, clients always trying to underpay them, and their younger brother getting into fights at least once a week with a line cook at the Waffle House. 

\--- 

As it happened, Geralt was there to see the finale, three entire months later. They’d been on their way back from a protest and Geralt had made the mistake of driving back along Main. In his defense, they’d needed to jump in to stop a couple of Nazis beating a man with a piece of pipe and Lambert was nursing a possibly-broken nose and the beginnings of a spectacular black eye. More fool he. 

“We’re stopping at the Waffle House,” Lambert said when they got near, sitting up. 

Geralt had to turn his head and stare. “Fuck’s sake, Lambert, you haven’t done _enough_ fighting for today?” 

“We’re stopping,” the little gremlin repeated, a dangerous glint in his eye. 

"I am going to _keep driving_ ," Geralt said, but he knew that look. 

"Go ahead, I could use a chance to try out my new intermittent noisemaker," Lambert said blithely. 

Geralt swore and pulled into the turn lane. 

Lambert swaggered in like he wasn’t courting having the cops called on him every goddamn time he came here and got into another fistfight with a line cook. Not that Geralt wasn’t also faulting the other guy. Lambert was fun to wind up, but taking it to the point of physical violence on a regular basis was absolutely ridiculous. 

Geralt walked in behind Lambert, utterly resigned. 

Lambert walked right up to the counter and took a seat immediately behind the blond head of his Eternal Rival. The server handed Geralt a menu as he sat down next to Lambert, giving him a sympathetic eyeroll. 

_Aiden_ turned around with the worst shit-eating grin Geralt had ever seen, which was quite an accomplishment when you literally _lived with_ Lambert, but the expression changed abruptly as he took in Lambert’s face. 

“Have another chef you’re fighting?” he asked, breezily. The casual attitude seemed affected to Geralt. 

Lambert _smiled_. Geralt only just stopped himself from gaping. 

"Eggs. Over- _easy_ ," Lambert said, venomously. 

Aiden hummed, staring at Lambert for a very long moment, and busied himself at his section of the griddle. 

The server came by again, to ask Geralt if he wanted anything. 

"Here for the fireworks," Geralt grunted, and the poor fucker nodded in _**deep**_ understanding, the kind that only came with extensive proximity to Lambert. 

A couple of minutes later, Aiden turned around with a plate held out of viewing range. To Geralt’s eye, he almost looked nervous. 

“Your eggs,” he said, setting the plate down in front of Lambert. 

Lambert opened his mouth, clearly ready to complain, but his gaze got caught on the plate and he stared, bug-eyed, at the contents. 

In all honesty, Geralt was staring too. 

Sitting on the plate were two very clearly over-easy eggs, each in a small circle of bacon shaped like a heart. The bacon even looked like it was about half a second away from being burned, exactly the way Lambert liked it. 

Lambert looked from the food up to Aiden and back again half a dozen times. Eventually Aiden seemed to realize that Lambert wasn’t going to get his shit together enough to speak anytime soon. 

“I get if you’re not— interested,” he said. “But I’ve been thinking about how to ask you out for weeks.” 

Lambert was still struck dumb, for once in his goddamn life. His eyes kept flicking from the unmistakable expression of affection on his plate to Aiden, and then back again. He looked terrified. 

Aiden's ears were turning pink. "Okay, stupid idea—" he started as he began to turn around, but Lambert's hand shot out and grabbed the man by his forearm. 

" _Why?_ " Lambert croaked. Geralt couldn't help but agree, which sounded terrible but also _Lambert had been getting into fistfights with this guy for literal months._

Aiden's smile got a little less nervous. "Why do people normally ask you out? I think you're hot—er, I mean in general, I don't think the black eye is _specifically_ doing anything for me—and I'd like to go on a date to get to know you better." 

"We've been getting into fights for _months!_ " 

"Yes? I thought it was fun, and you mostly weren't seriously trying to hurt me." Which was true, Geralt recalled. 

"I didn't think you—" Lambert started, then stopped. 

_Shit, had Lambert been **flirting** with Aiden? In his own idiotic way?_ Geralt thought, startled. 

Aiden covered Lambert's hand on his arm with his own. "Come on, I learned like twenty new ways to cook eggs for this, please don't tell me you didn't think I was having fun." 

Lambert, still apparently at a loss for words, looked down at Aiden's hand on his arm, then back up at the guy's face, licked his lips, and croaked "Yes." 

Aiden's expression went downright hopeful. "Yes what?" 

"Yes I'll," Lambert paused for a second and said the rest all in one breath. "Go on a date with you." 

The grin that lit Aiden's face was ridiculous, and Geralt was saying that as an outside observer. 

“Can I kiss you?” Aiden asked through his smile. 

Lambert twitched his head forward in a nod. 

“Oh good,” Aiden said, and started to lean in, and Geralt looked away because he did _not_ need to watch his brother kiss the Waffle House line cook he’d been punching since April. 

“Hey _fags_ , some of us are trying to _eat_ here!” some damn fool bigot yelled. 

Geralt turned his head to identify the fucker and, at the sight of the looks on Aiden and Lambert’s faces, sighed and started to roll up his sleeves. Eskel was going to laugh until he cried at this one. Fucking Waffle House. 


End file.
